Jane M. Choate - High-Risk Investigation

“Not bad.”

“Not bad or spot on?” she challenged.

“Not bad. Take it or leave it. Tell me what you know about last night.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“What does your gut tell you?”

She put down the menu and sat back, unwilling to share the jumble of feelings that made her stomach feel like it was coated with acid. “Right now it’s telling me that I’m hungry. I went off without breakfast and worked through lunch. You want something from me, you need to feed me first.”

The food arrived, rich and plentiful, redolent with the smells of grilled meat and fried onions.

She closed her eyes. The silent prayer over the food was both comforting and humbling.

When she looked up, it was to find Nicco watching her keenly. “You were praying, weren’t you?”

Her nod was brief. “I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.” At one time, she’d questioned the idea of praying, even silently, in a public place, but had decided she couldn’t worry over the opinions of others. Prayer was an important part of her life. Offering gratitude to the Lord was her way of acknowledging His hand in her life.

“Don’t apologize. It was...nice.” His gaze dropped. “My family always prayed at meals when I was a kid.”

“And now?”

“My parents and sisters still do.” He paused. “And Sal.”

“And you?”

“I sort of got out of the habit.” He popped a French fry into his mouth. “It’s good that you do.”

“You can, too. God doesn’t turn away prayers.” She smiled gently. “No matter how rusty they are.”

“I’m afraid mine are more than rusty. It’s hard to pray when you no longer believe.”

“What made you stop?”

“Stuff.” He left it at that.

The roughness of his voice told her to back off. She lifted her burger, brought it to her lips, and took a large bite. The meat was grilled to perfection. “Why didn’t I know about this place? I thought I knew all the good burger joints.”

“Phil—the owner—likes to keep it under wraps. He always says that if it caught on, he’d be busier than he wants.”

“He’s right.” She took another bite and sighed her pleasure.

“How’d you come to be named Scout?”

“My mother taught English at the university before she left to start writing. She did her dissertation on Harper Lee.”

“Got it. You’re named after the little girl in To Kill a Mockingbird.”

“Right. Daddy wanted me to go by my grandmother’s name—Rachel—but Scout stuck.”

“It fits.”

She felt Nicco’s gaze on her, evaluating, like he was trying to decide whether or not to ask her something. “What’ve you gotten yourself into?”

She hesitated. Sharing a story before she had all the facts was trouble. More, it smacked of unprofessionalism.

“I’m not out to scoop you.”

“As if.” Scout did some evaluating of her own. Could she trust him? She’d honed her people-reading skills over the last years, gauging motives and intent by paying attention to body language, facial expressions, and a host of other tells.

Frustration hardened the bodyguard’s sun-weathered face, but she didn’t detect any hint of deceit in him. His gaze met hers straight on with the precision of a laser. Nicco Santonni might try to steamroll over her, but he wouldn’t lie.

When the last fry was consumed and the chocolate shake and cookies only a memory, she gestured to a trash can that was only a few feet away. “You wanted to know why someone’s trying to kill me.”

“It crossed my mind.”

“It has to do with that.”

He followed her gaze. “Trash?”

“Trash. Or, if you want to be more precise, garbage.”

Twin furrows creased his brow before he nodded in understanding. “The garbage/sanitation industry. That’s why you were trying to get to Crane last night.”

“Nailed it. Crane’s a big name in the unions and I’m investigating union murders.” Honesty forced her to add, “Unofficially.”

“If it’s unofficial, why don’t you drop it? Whoever tried to kill you is playing for keeps.”

“So am I.” She swallowed back frustration at having someone tell her to drop the investigation. “Crane’s as slippery as they come. So far he’s blocked every effort I’ve made to talk with him.” She brought her fingers together, leaving only a tiny space between them. “I was this close last night to talking with him when...”

“Someone decided to use you for target practice.”

“Yeah. That. Thanks for the meal.” She stood. “If you don’t mind, I need to get my car and head back to work.”

“Sure.”

He helped her into the truck. At his touch, a zing of awareness raced through her.

Scout turned to him as he steered the truck back to the docks. Pulses of energy flared between the two of them as their gazes connected, jangling her senses. “Seriously, thank you. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

“Seriously, you’re welcome.”

Like most reporters, she was a quick study when it came to people. Nicco Santonni appealed to her on a gut-deep level, making her think of toughness and staying power. She made a decision. “If you have time, maybe you can follow me back to the office. There’s something I want to show you.”

* * *

At her office, Nicco read the letter, then reread it. His lips tightened with every word. No doubt about it, the lady was being threatened. He had no use for those who hid behind the cloak of anonymity. Cowards, the lot of them. “The creep went old school,” he said, gesturing to the words cut out from a magazine. “Cute.”

“Real cute.”

The hum of computers, the bustle of bodies on the move, and the scrape of chairs sliding across the linoleum floor filled the oversize room. Overlaying it was a sense of urgency, fed by caffeine and adrenaline. The atmosphere was one of purpose.

A television reporter had been embedded in Nicco’s last unit in Afghanistan. Against his better judgment, he’d fallen for her. In a big way. It had been a time of whispered exchanges, soft laughter, stolen kisses. They’d begun talking about the future. A home. Children. When an IED had exploded, killing her and two of his men, he’d nearly gone crazy with grief, blaming himself for failing to keep her safe. Shortly after that, he’d resigned his commission. How could he trust himself when he’d allowed the woman he loved to be killed?

Forcibly, he dragged his thoughts from the past. Scout had nothing to do with the incident that had cost the woman he’d loved her life. With that in mind, he turned his attention to how he could help. “Tell me about the other letters.”

“They weren’t bad,” she said, the reluctance in her tone telling him that there was more to come. “At least, not at first. More like a bully’s taunts.”

“Let me guess. They got worse.”

“Yeah. You could say that.”

“How many more?”

“Five.” The reluctance grew more pronounced. She dug through a drawer and pulled out the other letters. Her hand shook as she gave them to him. Her flush revealed her embarrassment at the betraying tremor.

He pretended he hadn’t noticed. “You’re right to be scared. You’d be a fool if you weren’t.”

She thrust out her chin. “I’m not scared. And I don’t run.” Her chin hitched another notch, the defiant gesture drawing his attention to the resolute set of her shoulders, the graceful contour of her neck. From there, his gaze dropped to her small but capable hands, the nails unpolished, the fingers unadorned by rings.

With hair that appeared more red than gold in the daylight, a sprinkling of cinnamon freckles and fair skin, she should have looked delicate, soft even. Instead, there was an intensity to her that caused him to forget that she stood barely over five feet and probably didn’t weigh more than a buck five. The passion in her eyes when she talked about her work made her appear bigger than she was.